


Steven Waugh’s First and Last FaceTime Call

by jodipaul



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, COVID-19, Caretaking, Coronavirus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know where this even came from, M/M, The boys are safe and healthy, incredibly sad, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jodipaul/pseuds/jodipaul
Summary: Quentin and Eliot are living as happily ever after as possible in quarantine when they receive some unwelcome news.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Steven Waugh’s First and Last FaceTime Call

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, my Muse randomly arrived at midnight and kept me up until 3:30 writing the first 3/4 of this. I have no idea where it came from, but I couldn't NOT write it, even though doing so made me cry more than once.
> 
> The moral of the story is: Never assume you understand anyone's motivations.

Eliot picked up his phone to add a couple of items to the grocery delivery order. He noticed another missed call from the 502 area code, the third in two days. No voicemail. He thought to himself, “Good thing the National Do Not Call List works so well.”

He and Quentin had been quarantining in the penthouse for about four months, grateful they didn’t have to worry about where to live. Quentin was making a small fortune Zoom-tutoring rich kids; Eliot had spent his quarantime primarily in the kitchen, learning sourdough, pickling, and kombucha brewing, along with gardening on the balcony. Next up was his first planned attempt at laminating dough, which required more butter than he ever realized could possibly be in the croissants he loved so much. He could hardly wait to try making them himself.

His phone rang. This time it was a 930 number. He didn’t recognize the exchange, but of course he knew the area code—southern Indiana. There were Waughs and Millers with Louisville’s 502 area code, but he hadn’t thought the other calls had been family since no one had left a message. He felt a profound sense of foreboding and answered the phone just as Quentin entered the room.

Eliot had become one of those people who only ever used speakerphone anymore, and often paced around when he was on a phone call. This is why Quentin heard the entire conversation:

“Eliot, thank God. This is your aunt Carol. It’s your dad—”

Eliot interrupted her rudely, “Carol, surely you are perfectly aware that I want absolutely nothing to do with that son of…”

Carol did the interrupting now, her voice loud and shaky at the same time. “Eliot, he’s in the hospital with the coronavirus. He’s been a smoker all his life and has diabetes, and he’s scared. We’re all scared. We’ve been trying to call you for a couple of days. It’s looking like he’s going to need to go on a ventilator later today, and all he wants is to talk to you. They won’t let anybody in there with him. Other than Tom and the girls, you’re all he has left.

“Tom tracked me down and asked me to call you, hoping you might actually take a call from me. I’m glad you did, Eliot. We need to catch up sometime. After … this. I’ve been a shitty aunt to you these last few years, and I want to change that. This whole thing… Life is too short. Please, Eliot? Don’t you think your mother would have wanted you to grant your father’s dying wish?”

Eliot snorted. “You _presume_ to tell _me_ what you think _my mother_ would have wanted?” He noticed Quentin wandering in and out of the kitchen, but couldn’t focus on what he might have been doing. He knew Quentin could hear every word. He didn’t care. They had stopped keeping secrets from each other long ago, and that was one of the reasons he took all his calls on speakerphone.

Carol snarled, “She was my _twin sister_ , you little shit. Fine, just fuck all of us then?”

Eliot collapsed onto a barstool, his head landing in his hands. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. This whole thing is just too much, even though we're so fortunate. My partner and I have been quarantined for months; we are perfectly safe. This is literally the first person I know who has been infected. I can’t possibly imagine what that sorry SOB could possibly want to say to me, but I am an adult and I can do hard things. What do I need to do?”

“Let me call Tom. He’s staying there at your dad’s house now. He’s at least one of the numbers that’s been trying to reach you. I’ll call him right now. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay? Take care, Eliot. I love you.”

“I love you too, Aunt Carol. Thanks for calling.”

Eliot looked up at Quentin, who was standing on the other side of the bar. He spat, “I can’t fucking believe my father is dying of the coronavirus. I can hardly think of a more fitting end.”

“I know it’s probably more easily said than done, but try not to create a mental narrative around how the conversation is going to go. Just keep an open mind and do your best to … hear him out.”

“Well, I for one could use a drink. You?”

“No thanks. Not right now. I’ve still got some work to finish up, so I should stay sober for now. Are you okay out here? I can hang out here with you instead.”

“Suit yourself,” Eliot said, breezing over to the bar. He poured himself a shot and downed it in a single gulp, then began mixing a cocktail. “No, I’m okay. I’m going to have a drink and finish ordering groceries.”

Quentin was relatively certain Eliot was lying, but let it slide this time, given the circumstances. “Okay. I’ll be done pretty soon. Let me know if you hear anything else.” Quentin walked around the bar and wound his arms around Eliot’s waist. “I know this is a lot. Whatever happens, I know it can’t be easy. I love you, Eliot. I’m right here for you, okay? You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Out of Eliot came a watery chuckle. “I know, baby. And I thank you. But I’m going to spend the next little while with this drink, pretending that everything is normal.” His next laugh was more like a sob as he gestured vaguely around, “For whatever value of ‘normal’ ‘normal’ even means anymore. Go, finish working so you can keep us in butter and flour. I’m going to try my hand at croissants tomorrow.”

“Wow, really? I’ve been pretty amazed by the kinds of things you’ve been turning out lately, all these new things you’ve been learning how to make. Have I ever thanked you for feeding me so well?”

“Probably. Even if you hadn’t, you’re welcome, baby. I want to be able to keep feeding you like this during the apocalypse, so I’m learning what I didn’t already know about homesteading…in our New York penthouse.” Eliot bent and kissed Quentin’s forehead, then spun him around and pushed him gently away. “Off with you, now.”

Quentin started to walk back to his office, chuckling. “Homesteading in a penthouse is so on brand for you.”

About twenty minutes later, Quentin heard Eliot’s voice, and it wasn’t directed at him. He correctly deduced that Eliot was on the phone and went into the kitchen to see what he could find out. Eliot was just hanging up with his uncle, and had clearly had more than just that one drink.

“My uncle is going to give this number to the nurse on the floor where my dad is. They’ll FaceTime as soon as possible, so it should be another few minutes, I guess?”

Quentin took a deep breath. “Okay. Why don’t you go sit down on the couch and get comfortable? It’s going to be okay. I’m right here.”

“Q, why are _you_ nervous? Are you sure you don’t want a drink? It’ll be fine. He’ll say his bullshit piece, I’ll nod, we’ll hang up, we’ll never speak again. He’s been dead to me for years.”

Holding his hands in a surrendering gesture, Quentin said, “So we wait. Croissants, huh? I’ve always wondered how they’re made.”

They both sat as Eliot laughed, a delightful sound on what had turned out to be a very unusual day. “Oh, no, baby Q, you are _not_ allowed to see how much butter goes into croissants. You’ll never want to eat another one, and that’s just not acceptable.”

“Well, now you’ve gone and done it. You have to tell me now.”

“Absolutely not. I will banish you from the kitchen if I have to. We will eat them and enjoy them, no matter what their nutritional—”

Eliot froze as his phone rang with an incoming FaceTime call. He looked at Quentin, took a deep breath to steel himself, and accepted the call. On the tiny screen was Eliot’s father, Steven Waugh, in a hospital bed. At a glance, it was clear where Eliot had inherited his tall, wiry stature, but the man looking at them was downright gaunt. His features were sunken in a bruised-looking face, and he looked absolutely exhausted.

“Hi, dad.” His voice was very small.

Quentin squeezed Eliot’s hand, hard. He mouthed “I’ll be right back,” and stepped away.

“Eliot. I’m glad they found you, and I’m glad you took this call. Thank you. Please let me try to get all this out. Please don’t interrupt when I start coughing. Please. I don’t know how to use these things, and they tell me I can’t stay on the call long, so I’ll try to make it quick.

“They’re telling me about how many people recover, but I’m pretty sure this thing is going to take me. You’ll never have to hear from me again, after this. My deathbed confession is for you, Eliot. First, I want you to know that I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t _want_ you to forgive me. All I ask is that you hear me and maybe try to understand some day.

“The world is changing fast. Too fast for me, but my time here is limited even if I do survive. I’m not even going to try to apologize for the way I’ve treated you, because I don’t know where to start, and I could spend the rest of my life trying.”

Quentin walked back in the room and put some things down. He sat next to a pale, trembling Eliot, who didn’t seem to notice him. He took Eliot’s hand, and Eliot instinctively curled their fingers together as Steven continued speaking.

“Is that your man there, just sat down beside you?”

Eliot opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Quentin stepped in. “Ah, yes, I’m Quentin. I’m Eliot’s partner. We’re saddened to hear you’re sick.”

“Thank you, Quentin. I’m glad to meet you. I’m grateful Eliot has someone. Don’t look so surprised, son. I told you, the world is changing fast. It’s not the same today as it was not even all that long ago. I know you know I was in the service. Do you remember your ‘Uncle’ Richard? I know you met him the few times he came to town for a visit. We were stationed together during Desert Storm. We were best friends, always looked out for each other, saved each other’s lives a couple of times, real wartime buddies.”

Already short of breath as the virus wracked his lungs, hoarse from coughing every couple of sentences, now Steven Waugh, archvillain of the Eliot Waugh Story, began to weep.

“Eliot, I just thought. God, I was so stupid. My ‘love’ was so misguided; I was so angry with him, so hurt. Eliot, I thought if I could keep you from being gay. If I could make you _not gay_. If I could make you _not gay like me_ I could save you a lifetime of heartache. I wanted to protect you from the pain of losing the love of your life. So you wouldn’t _have to_ marry a woman.

“‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ was a sham. Richard wanted to stay in the service, retired from it a few years back. But back then, we couldn’t risk getting caught. So we split up after I was discharged. I came back to Gatchel, married your mother, and that was that. I’ve been miserable ever since that day. Can you guess what Richard’s middle name is? It’s Eliot. I named you after him so I wouldn’t ever forget.”

Steven took a moment to cough, sob, and try to blow his nose all at once. The beeping of the machines he was hooked up to was deafening as he gasped to take a few breaths.

“I wanted to keep you from having to live a lie. I was so wrong to have done and said the things I did. I just wanted you to know _why_. I know this probably won’t help a goddamned thing, and that in telling you the truth I’m traumatizing you _again_. And I am so very sorry for that. For all of it. I’m just so fucking sorry…”

He collapsed into a coughing fit so intense he dropped the phone on the bed, gasping for breath. All Eliot and Quentin could see now was the ceiling tiles. After a moment, a nurse picked up the phone, said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to end the call so I can treat the patient,” and disconnected the phone.

Eliot looked at Quentin, tear tracks all over his ashen face. “Quentin,” he wailed.

Quentin was prepared, so he was quick to move the bucket into place just as Eliot leaned over and vomited. And vomited. He rubbed gentle circles into Eliot’s back as he heaved. When the retching finally ended, Quentin moved the bucket to the side and covered it with a towel. He handed Eliot a damp washcloth that had been sitting on a plate on the coffee table. Next to it sat a bottle of club soda and an opened bottle of Angostura bitters.

Quentin opened the bottle, added a few dashes of bitters to the club soda, and swirled it around. Handing it to Eliot, he spoke as softly as he could. “Just sip it. It’ll settle your stomach.” Eliot nodded, having taught Quentin this particular trick.

Quentin took the washcloth from Eliot and replaced it on the plate, then did a quick series of tuts that cleaned the contents of the bucket. He reached out and took Eliot’s hand, twining their fingers together again. With his other hand, he gestured at the coffee table. “Do you think you wanna try a cracker?”

Eliot nodded, and Quentin passed him the little bowl. He closed his eyes, nibbling a saltine, and breathed in the scent of lavender. When he opened his eyes, he finally took in all the supplies Quentin had brought into the room, including the (apparently) lavender candle flickering softly.

“Q. How did you know I was going to…” He made a gesture that described vomiting.

“When Julia told me that my dad had died, I puked all over her shoes. For quite a while, I was more embarrassed that had happened than I was sad about my dad. She still tells me it was a perfectly normal reaction… Anyway, I was pretty sure that no matter what your dad had to say, it would _not_ be easy to hear. I wanted to be able to _do something_.”

“Quentin. Baby, you do _so much_ for me, every day. You’re everything. Thank you. I love you so much. Jesus. That was. I can’t believe he. I just… I just can’t.” Again, Eliot started to cry.

Quentin gathered Eliot into his arms. “You don’t have to try to talk about it right now. Just breathe, or cry, or do whatever you need to do. I’ll text Arden in a bit and see if they can see us tomorrow, okay? Just … be. Why don’t you have a little more water and another cracker or two? I’m sure you’re still drunk.”

Eliot sat up straight, nodded, and sipped the drink. His stomach roiled as it hit, but settled and smoothed out as he had another cracker. “Will you come lay down with me? I just want to lay down for a while.”

“I love you too. More than anything. Of course, Eliot, we can do whatever you need. There isn’t anything else we have to do today. But let’s make sure you don’t get dehydrated, okay? Do you think you can keep down at least half the bottle and the rest of the crackers?”

They sat without speaking; for long moments, the only sound in the room was that of Eliot munching on saltines. When he was finished, Quentin stood. “Come on,” he said, offering Eliot his hand. “I’ll hold you, and we can even sleep if you want to. We’ll figure the rest out later. You go brush your teeth and I’ll text Arden.”

Eliot’s head spun as he stood up, nodding woodenly. Although his entire worldview had been turned upside down—again—he was comforted by Quentin’s steady presence. He took a moment to be grateful for Quentin, and also for their therapist, while he brushed his teeth and washed his face. He didn’t know what his world would look like when he woke up, but he knew he would wake up beside Quentin. That was all he really needed.


End file.
